Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers Book 1)

by Melanie Munton

  “We’re ready for this season,” I told her. “We have momentum coming in from last season, not to mention motivation and a chance to redeem ourselves. We have one of the most talented teams the Red Sox have had in decades and as long as we can avoid major injuries, I have confidence that we’ll have a solid season.”

  “Okay, clear the set!” the photographer shouted, effectively clearing out everyone around. We’d taken a brief break from the photo shoot so he could changes lenses or something.

  I didn’t know or care. I just showed up and did what I was told.

  The only reason I was even here was because I was helping a friend out. The owner of Jimmy’s Pro Shop was the son of my former minor league coach, Walt Becker. Walt and I became close friends when I was down in the minors. He’d become somewhat of an uncle to me. I knew his son, Jimmy, who had started his own sporting equipment company from the ground up and I was here as a favor. A professional baseball player endorsing his business should do well for him. The Beckers were good people so I wanted to help them out.

  But I hated photo shoots with a passion. I’d been ready to leave and go have a beer about five minutes after I’d walked through the door.

  “Okay, Mr. Cruz,” the photographer said. What was his name? Tyrone? Titus? Something with a “T.” And I had a sneaking suspicion that the French accent he had was probably a fake. “Let’s have you holding the bat over your shoulder with both hands.” I did what he said. “That’s it. Now turn it a little so we can see the label. There we go.”

  He clicked several pictures, moving around in front of me. “Now, look into the camera. No smile, please.” That was easy enough.

  He took a few more pictures, changing poses and directing my movements. Then, when he called for an equipment change, people once again scurried around me, taking the bat away and exchanging it for a glove and messing with the background stuff behind me. This gave Gail the opportunity to continue her questioning.

  “You were the American League’s defensive player of the year last year, which impressed a lot of people considering the nature of your injury two seasons ago,” she said, taking a pause from writing notes in her notepad. “How’s that knee holding up?”

  I shifted around on it, testing it out a little, listening for any creaking that shouldn’t have been there. “It’s good. My mobility is good. Haven’t had any problems with it.”

  “There was also surprise at how quickly you recovered from your surgery. There’s even been speculation as to the possibility of steroid use. Do you have any comment on that?”

  Should have known all of her questions weren’t going to be innocent and cute. She was a reporter after all, and in my experience they all had hidden agendas they liked to keep just below the surface. Then, like snakes, they would pop up and strike at you when you were least expecting it.

  My agent had prepared me for this. As a baseball player, especially one of the more successful ones, I always had to be ready for steroid allegations. I could understand where some of the rumors came from. If another player had said something that was taken the wrong way or if test results came back weird due to a particular medication a player was taking because that did tend to happen.

  But some rumors were just pulled out of fucking nowhere. I hadn’t touched the stuff once in my whole life—never would—but my speedy recovery had started to put my clean record into question.

  I sighed, so tired of addressing this. I took it as a personal insult that anyone would be suspicious of the authenticity of my skills. I understood why it was necessary because some guys did take advantage of the sport by using. I didn’t like encouraging the issue by answering these questions, but my agent assured me that it would look a lot worse for me if I ignored them altogether.

  “I’ve never used steroids in my life,” I told her, my voice hard. It was always a struggle to control my temper with this situation. “My recovery was due to a lot of hard work, discipline, and help from my doctors in rehab. I was drug tested regularly in physical therapy, and still am on a continual basis like any other player. I’ve never once failed a drug test. My injury motivated me to work harder than I ever had before and that’s exactly what I did.”

  Gail had her digital recorder out, but she still wrote furiously on her notepad as she listened to me. With that particular question, she showed no emotion and kept her expression blank. For the next question, however, she went back into flirty mode, which completely threw me for a loop. Reporters.

  “Well, I’m sure our female audience will want to know, are you currently seeing anyone?” She was grinning at me while she nibbled on the tip of her pen. Was that supposed to be sexy? Because everything down south didn’t seem to notice. And I had to wonder if that was actually one of her questions for the article or if it was more of a personal inquiry.

  It did cause me to think, though.

  Hm. How to answer that?

  Kinley and I weren’t anything close to being official, except for maybe official “friends” and even that was questionable. But I wouldn’t consider myself a free agent either. I wanted to be seeing Kinley—was sort of obsessed with the woman—which made it kind of impossible for me to even think about dating anyone else.

  Kinley and I may not have been together, but in my mind, we pretty much were.

  “I’m not officially seeing anyone, no. But I’m also not looking to date right now either. I’m focusing on baseball and that’s all I’m going to be concentrating on for the next nine months.”

  Not quite the truth but close enough.

  “And we’re back!”

  Tim or Tyson…whoever—the photographer—came back to stand in front of me. “Okay, let’s have some smiles for this one, Mr. Cruz. Look like you’re happy to be using equipment from Jimmy’s Pro Shop. I want to see a lot of teeth.”

  As he moved around, clicking on his camera, I couldn’t help but think of Kinley again. These days, any time I was around a camera it reminded me of her. And because I was desperate for her, I pictured her as the one taking pictures of me. Hovering around me, the camera in front of her face, her chocolate hair falling across her shoulders…while the rest of her was naked.

  Oh, I liked that.

  Her taking pictures of me, wearing nothing but the camera strap around her neck. Maybe I could be naked, too, and taking pictures of me would turn her on. We’d dance around each other for a while, admiring the other, imagining what we wanted to do to one another. Then, when neither of us could no longer stand it, we’d lunge for each other in a wild frenzy, limbs wrapping around themselves in a tangled, sweaty mess. I wouldn’t be able to make it to the bedroom, so I’d shove her against the nearest wall. Driving into her for the first time, she’d be so warm and tight and…

  Shit.

  These baseball pants were starting to feel a little tighter.

  This was the absolute last place I needed to be thinking about having sex with Kinley while a dozen people stood around, watching me. I didn’t embarrass easily but getting a boner while some guy was taking pictures of me? That would sure do it.

  God knows what Gail could write about that one.

  Down, boy.

  Cold showers. Losing the World Series. The cutout of Dawson from Christmas.

  Okay, that helped.

  “Relax, Mr. Cruz. You’re looking a little stiff.”

  You have no idea.

  ##

  Two days later, I flew down to Baltimore and was driving over to Mason’s shop in the rental car I picked up. I preferred my truck but I did not feel like driving seven plus hours from Boston in it. My knee may not bother me too much anymore, but sitting in a vehicle for that long wouldn’t exactly make it feel awesome either.

  I wished I was closer to my brothers, but they had their own lives and the Red Sox was a great club. I was fortunate to still be with them.

  After Dawson graduated high school, he’d stuck around D.C. for a few years, working and helping take care of me and Mason. More than anyth
ing, I think he was just afraid to leave the two of us alone in Sal’s hands. He’d always tried to protect us from him.

  Then, Mason graduated and he couldn’t get out of D.C. fast enough. I more or less lived with Clay at that point, so I told them they shouldn’t feel guilty about leaving and wanting to start their own lives. I’d had Clay and his family so I hadn’t been alone. Besides, I’d been in high school at that point and had a major growth spurt. If Sal wanted to come at me with his fists, I had been capable of not only defending myself, but dishing it back, as well.

  And since the bastard knew it, he’d laid off. Mostly.

  Dawson eventually ended up in Baltimore somehow and joined the police force there. Mason moved around quite a bit, got into some bad shit with some worse people, and when he hit rock bottom, he moved in with Dawson after a brief stint in rehab. He was going through a really rough patch and was having trouble making rent, so Dawson and Mickie let him live in their basement. Eventually, he cleaned himself up, worked and saved up enough money to open up his own shop, and was now five years sober.

  I pulled up to his shop and parked around back. Despite the crisp winter air, it was a beautiful day. I luxuriated in the sun’s rays as I crossed the parking lot and walked around to the garage’s entrance.

  It may have been a custom paint and restoration shop, rather than a standard auto body garage, but the same smells of grease, oil, and car fumes filled the air as I walked inside. The sounds of grinding metal, rock music blasting from the stereo, and guys talking loudly over the noise met my ears as I searched for my brother.

  Mason walked out of his office into the garage—several large pieces of paper that looked to have sketches on them tucked under his arm—and immediately spotted me. Smiling as he walked over, he wrapped me up in a hug, slapping me on the back.

  “’Sup, bro. Thought you weren’t getting in until later.”

  “Flight got in early. Thought I’d see if you wanted to go to lunch.”

  He looked down at the leather-banded watch on his wrist and nodded. “Yeah, I could swing that.” Turning around, he yelled at a guy in the back standing near a huge tool box. “Cooke! Got something I need you to do.”

  The younger-looking guy—probably in his early twenties—came over, wiping his hands on the dirty rag hanging out of his pocket. Mason picked up the sketches and handed them to Cooke. “Take these over to the Impala, will you? Start on laying down the stencils. The guy calls again, tell him it’s too late to make any more changes.” Mason then looked at me, frustration all over his face. “I’ve had to re-do those sketches four times for this asshole. He’s like a high maintenance woman re-designing her kitchen.”

  I laughed. Cooke looked down at the sketches and nodded. “You got it.” Then, he glanced up at me and started to turn away when his head whipped back in my direction, his eyes widening as recognition set in. “Holy shit. You’re Parker Cruz.”

  I smiled and reached out to shake his hand. “Last time I checked.”

  He looked at me, shell-shocked, and I wanted to laugh. Everybody dealt with it differently. He hesitantly shook my hand and let out a nervous chuckle. “Nice to meet you. I’m a big fan.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  Mason watched his employee with amusement. “Dude, you knew he was my brother, didn’t you?”

  Cooke’s eyes flicked to Mason. “I thought the guys were just bullshitting me when they told me that! Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Mason laughed and shook his head. Cooke looked back at me, a question lurking in his eyes. “This probably sounds lame, but can I have your autograph?”

  Mason rolled his eyes and I chuckled, nodding. “Sure. What do you want me to sign?”

  Cooke started looking around and patting his pockets in panic before blurting out, “Wait! I have a ball in my truck.” He was about to run off but then turned back to Mason. “Cool, boss?”

  My brother waved his hand, smirking. “Go ahead.”

  The guy ran off with the enthusiasm of a six-year-old. Come to think of it, he actually reminded me of our nephew, Leo. “New guy,” Mason muttered when Cooke left the garage. “Kind of a spaz but knows his shit. He’s like the encyclopedia of anything on wheels. Plus, he can rebuild a car engine faster than I can.”

  I raised my eyebrows at that. “I think he likes you, boss.”

  He grinned. “Not now that he knows you’re my brother. His hero-worship is going to shift to you. Congratulations.”

  Cooke came back in and gave me the baseball he wanted me to sign. I had to admit, the smile on the guy’s face made me love my job even more. “Thanks so much. My little brother is going to freak. He loves you even more than I do.” He cringed as soon as he said it, looking up at me apologetically. “That sounded weird. I’m not—”

  I put my hand up, smiling at him. “It’s okay. I’m happy to do it.”

  Cooke went to go put the ball back in his truck, walking slowly and handling the ball like it was spun glass. “I think you made his year,” Mason said, turning to me. “Probably his brother’s, too. I don’t know much about the situation, but I heard one of the guys say that his brother is autistic. And it’s none of my business, but from what I hear around the shop, Cooke mostly takes care of the kid himself.”

  I felt my stomach sink with every word. “Damn.” I thought for a second. “You know, we play the Orioles here in Baltimore sometime in August, I think. I bet I could get them both tickets to the game.”

  Mason slapped my arm, a sober look on his face. “That’d be great, man. I’d appreciate it and I know they’d love it.”

  There was a heaviness in the air and we both knew what the other was thinking about. The struggles we experienced growing up were weighing on our minds, and thinking about these two brothers brought so much of it to the surface.

  I squeezed Mason’s shoulder and started to lead him outside. “Come on, man. Let’s go eat.”

  ##

  Dawson came over to Mason’s place that night, and we sprawled out in his living room, drinking beer and watching college basketball. Guys’ nights like these didn’t happen often anymore, unfortunately.

  But it was understandable.

  Dawson worked irregular hours as a detective, and he had a wife and kids. Mason had an entire business to run. And I, of course, didn’t even live in the same city, not to mention the fact that for most months out of the year, I was traveling all over the country.

  “Mickie alright with watching the kids tonight?” I asked.

  He shook his head, taking a sip of his beer. “They’re with a babysitter, actually. Said she needed a night out with the girls.”

  Our last conversation at Christmas about the stress of their situation ran through my mind. “Things getting any better? With her new hours and everything?”

  He shrugged and I could tell something was just off with him lately. He’d always been the hardest of the three of us. Kind of had to be what with being the oldest and feeling like he always had to look out for us when we were younger.

  But this detachment I was sensing wasn’t normal for him. This felt almost like…unhappiness. Like he’d almost lost his passion for life or something. It was guys’ night so I didn’t want to get all emotional on him by asking for more.

  I just hoped he and Mickie were doing okay. I wanted both of my brothers to be happy.

  You should be happy, too.

  Working on it.

  “I’m telling you, man,” Mason said from his spot across the room. “If that Hauser kid would just work on his inside shots, he’d be first round draft pick.”

  And thus began the debate on the next NBA first round draft team. It went on for a good thirty minutes. We could never be like this at home when we were young, and our father never just sat around and talked sports with us. So I never took these times with my brothers for granted.

  Just as halftime rang out of the Virginia v. North Carolina game, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

  Please let it be
Kinley. We hadn’t talked since we both left D.C., which was only two days ago but it felt like an eternity. I sound like a freaking teenage girl. Great.

  It was her.

  I was smiling before I even opened up her message. And then I flat out laughed when I saw the picture she attached. It looked like some feral, stray cat—malnutritioned and dirty.

  Kinley hated cats.

  Like, truly thought they were all possessed by demons and that they should all live on an island by themselves.

  Her text just made me laugh—and miss her—even more.

  Kinley: This is the only wildlife I encountered today. I still feared for my life, though. It ran away when I pulled out my knife.

  I quickly typed out a response.

  Parker: Then I’m pretty sure the cat was more afraid of you then you were of it.

  Kinley: See? I can be scary.

  Parker: You with a knife? ANYBODY would be scared of that.

  Kinley: Remember that the next time you tell me my Tweety Bird sucks.

  I laughed again and debated on whether to send my next response. Oh, what the hell. If she couldn’t tell I still wanted her then she was completely naïve…or blind. Might as well make my intentions known if she hadn’t figured them out already.

  Parker: Feel free to get rough with me anytime you want. ;-)

  Kinley: Know that I’m rolling my eyes at you right now.

  Parker: But you’re smiling, too.

  I think I was actually holding my breath as I waited for her reply.

  Kinley: Maybe.

  Yes. That’s what I wanted.

  She was starting to give a little, I could feel it. If I made her smile enough, maybe I could eventually get her to forget the fact that she’d spent the last several years pissed at me.

  That’s when I realized how quiet the room had become. I’d been so absorbed in talking to Kinley that I’d actually forgotten where I was and the fact that my brothers were sitting only feet from me.

  They also knew me really well.

  “Who you talking to there, bro?” Dawson asked.